Surfin' On A Rocket
by bitterkidxsweety
Summary: He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers. They were tired. So tired. LP


A/N: LP. One-shot. Somewhat AU. Title from Air, excerpt from On The Road and quote from Winter Of Our Discontent. I don't own anything.

xxx

_"What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?" She didn't know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost._

xxx

He'd seen her once, sitting in a secluded section somewhere at the back of the school. It was sometime during second period on his way back from running an errand for his teacher. He remembered things like that, things no one cared to remember.

She was sitting with her back leaning against the building, her slender legs crossed at her ankles and one elbow perched on the back of her wrist as she smoked a cigarette. The wind blew her curls across her face, her hazel eyes closed shut, and he watched from a distance as she tilted her head back and welcomed the cool breeze.

He didn't move. He didn't dare move.

It was a cynical smile that turned into tears and tears that turned into sobs. Her lips pursed, and her head titled sideways and down, and she held the tears on her mouth and her cheek with the palm of her hand because she couldn't make them stop.

Peyton was crying. Peyton was crying, and she couldn't stop.

His hands clenched into fists; his jaw tightened; his gaze turned to stone.

He was angry. Or at least, he wanted to be angry. He wanted to be angry; he wanted to be furious; he wanted to punch something, he wanted to go over to her. He wanted to hold her.

He wanted her to stop.

He thought he was more sad than angry.

A deliberate drag of her cigarette, a slow exhale of smoke, and it was gone.

His fists unclenched; his jaw loosened; his gaze softened.

Maybe he had imagined it.

Her blonde head tipped back and she took another lazy drag of her cigarette. The paper stick pulled away from her lips and a visible wisp of white smoke blew out of her the corner of her mouth, gradually fading into the thin air.

He blinked.

Maybe he didn't.

The bell began to ring; students started to filter out of the classrooms. She still sat leaning against the wall, still smoking her cigarette; and he still watched with that pensive look on his face, clutching his hall pass at his side.

He remembered he'd never known she smoked.

xxx

Sometimes she would do silly things.

(Sometimes, though, not all the time.)

Like sometimes, when she caught him looking at her, she made cute, funny faces at him. He'd raise an eyebrow, a twinkle in his blue eyes, and his lips would curve into that soft, amused smile of his which would promptly be returned with a cute, wacky grin he tried extra hard to keep in the back of his head so he would be able to remember it.

Goofy, childish things, like sometimes, when they were studying together, she'd give their writing utensils' funny voices and personalities. He'd laugh, and her performance would get more melodramatic, and the librarian would have to come over and tell them to be quiet. Sometimes they wouldn't, and they'd get kicked out.

Sometimes, she went the whole day replying to everyone with lines from plays, and movies, and books, and song lyrics, even if they had nothing to do with what they were talking about. Silly jargon, random excerpts, things that were funny and unexpected and said with such a casual ease that either amused you or annoyed you.

And sometimes, she'd dance in front of her web cam, banging her head to NOFX and giggling insanely at every little thing. She'd swivel around in her chair, singing along to the songs, and she'd collapse on her bed, laughing at nothing in particular.

Sometimes, like now.

He smiled at the marvel dancing on the monitor, peach limbs and blurs of blonde hair sweeping passed his screen.

She was such a darling girl.

xxx

When she was little, her father used to sit on the couch on Sunday afternoons and watch basketball. Most of the time, she'd stand by the door, holding her teddy bear until she found some way of amusing herself. She'd go outside and imagine she could fly, or go in her room and draw a picture.

Once in awhile, she'd gather up the courage, and she would go over and crawl into his lap. He'd instinctively put his arm around her and hold her close, and even if she didn't understand what was going on, she'd watch. She'd watch and she wouldn't move, and she wouldn't say anything at all because she was afraid that if she moved just a little, or made the smallest noise, that moment would be gone.

When her mother died, her father stopped watching basketball. When her mother died, he couldn't be around her. He would tense when she touched him; he would cough and make a lame excuse and left the room entirely sometimes.

She would sit by herself in the living room, her teddy bear on one side; an old, time-beaten quilt on the other. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and illuminated the dust particles dancing on the hard, wooden floor. And she'd watch basketball by herself.

Every now and then, she'd feel him watching her. She'd look up from her toys or from her colorful crayon drawings and she'd see eyes so intensely sad and full of pain she couldn't move. They would look at each other, brown staring into hazel, hazel staring up at brown: stunned, poignant, aching. And they'd stare until her crayon broke from gripping too hard, or the phone rang, and something broke them out of their reveries.

That was when he started going away more. Taking jobs far away, more frequently, and for longer periods of time.

It wasn't ok. It was never ok.

She acted like she didn't care.

xxx

One time, he found a teddy bear in her room.

"A teddy bear?" he had asked.

"His name is Eugene."

"Eugene? I like that name. My middle name is Eugene."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. It's Eugene. Lucas Eugene Scott."

…

"That's a horrible name."

"Yea? Well what's your middle name?"

"Elizabeth. Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer."

"Well what kind've name is that?"

"A good one."

A blonde curl fell over her eye and he gingerly tucked it behind her ear.

She watched his actions in the corner of her eye. His calloused fingers gently brushed passed her temple and her hair.

She looked away.

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

She was quiet.

He absentmindedly fiddled with the teddy bear he held in his hands. His blue eyes swiftly caught her watching. He guessed she thought she was being discreet. He made it dance on her lap then brought it up to kiss her cheek.

She looked at him.

He looked back.

"Say miss mousy, will you marry me?" he asked. He waved the teddy bear next to his face.

She reached out and took the bear from his hand.

"Weirdo," she said.

He smiled.

xxx

Peyton was all angry curls and stubborn tears. He'd see her racing out of the school parking lot; tires screeching, music blaring, people jumping out of the way and muttering curses after her as she sped off towards her next destination.

He briefly wondered how she had gotten her driver's license in the first place. She was a horrible driver.

"You're crazy," he said.

The sky was a cool, velvety dark; a pleasurable quiet that stilled the atmosphere. He was leaning on the headlights of her black convertible, shoulders hunched, barely sitting. She sat next to him on the hood of her car, holding a basketball in her lap she had been preoccupying herself with when he had been working on a car earlier that night.

Tense, a bit awkward, but they wouldn't have it any other way.

The garage was poorly lit with bright neon lights, some broken and flickering, others shining so intensely that it hurt their eyes, and something soft and mellow played on the portable radio sitting askew on a red, metal toolbox, its silver antenna bent and the black plastic chipped on one corner.

He looked down. "I like that you're crazy," he said quietly.

She kept her eyes on the invisible circles she was drawing with her index finger. She suddenly felt very tired.

"Lucas?" she asked. Her voice was soft and sad, barely above a whisper.

"Do you think you'll tire of me?"

It was honest, and innocent, and yet it also held the weight of the world.

He turned more serious now, less playful, but still with warmth in his clear blue eyes.

"I'm hard to love, Luke." She was staring into nothing now, her large hazel eyes beginning to cloud with darkness and confusion. She instinctively hugged the basketball closer and rested her chin on the bumpy surface.

"I've always been hard to love."

She didn't look at him. She was afraid to look. He moved in front of her and tentatively reached out to touch her face. He heard her breath catch in her throat with a small, audible gasp.

He hesitatingly stepped closer, slowly and consciously, waiting for a reaction. She swallowed dryly and closed her hazel eyes shut.

He was looking at her, just looking: down from the golden curl on her forehead, to her china doll eyes, her doll nose, and to her pale, pink lips.

It was loving, tender. Lust.

His lips gently moved from her cheeks, to her forehead, to her nose, and hovered over her mouth before they lay a gentle, loving kiss on her lips. So sweet and chaste and innocent and warm; he tasted something wet and salty, and his blue eyes slowly opened to see a lone tear slide down her cheek.

"Peyton…" he said.

"…I always screw up, Luke. I always screw things up," she whispered.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers.

They were tired. So tired.

His hand gently squeezed her own.

She was complicated, difficult, spiteful maybe. Trouble. Definitely trouble.

That was part of how he saw her. That was part of how everyone saw her.

She made people want to keep a distance; to judge from far away, whisper rumors about her to each other even though you knew most of them weren't true. And him, she made him want to hold her.


End file.
